Bearings
by spellmugwump97
Summary: The talk between Dumbledore and Harry in King's Cross took far longer than either of them anticipated. When a still war-torn and grieving Harry emerges, it remains uncertain to all whether he will be able to cope living in a Wizarding World that is ready to move on from the throes of war and battle.
1. Prologue

**BEARINGS**

_Prologue_

Harry was, quite simply, very, _very_ disorientated.

The last thing that was embedded in his memory was a flash of green light, eerily similar to that of his childhood nightmares. Of course, now he knew the real reason.

He had walked into the forest, that much was certain. He had let Voldemort shoot the killing curse at him - that had to be the bright, livid green light.

As to where he was now, Harry had absolutely _no_ idea.

He tried to sit up. Whatever he was lying on, was most certainly not the forest anymore. It was more reminiscent of the flooring of the halls of Hogwarts, the flooring of the Great Hall … _no_.

That was where the bodies were. Where Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Colin … where so many rested, eternally. Harry would not think of that. _Could_ not think of that. He was in some sort of unknown, and frankly terrifying location, and he could not afford to cry, could not afford to mourn, however much he wanted to at this moment in time -

'OUCH!' Harry shouted, lifting his hand to rub the top of his gingerly. His head had collided with some sort of stone, and reaching his other hand up vertically to feel it, he suddenly realised that it was the same sort of material that he was currently lying on.

That … was _not_ right.

Harry felt to the sides of him.

There it was again, the same smooth, stone like substance, that seemed to be encasing him. He only had to reach his arms out slightly, so get to the sides, there was barely enough room to move in this little place. It reminded Harry strangely of his cupboard.

A stick of smooth wood was sticking into his side. Harry's hands scrabbled up to find it, locate it near his chest, his elbow bending awkwardly over his chest to try and get to the annoying piece of wood. Eventually, his hands touched the familiar wood, and Harry gasped.

_His wand_.

It was broken, was it not? Snapped by Hermione's stray curse, in Godric's Hollow. It was not supposed to be completely mended, completely whole.

But, against all of the odds, against _everything_, the warm feeling surged up his right arm, and Harry could see brief glimmers of that place in which he awkwardly lay, from the shower of sparks that erupted out of the end of his wand, red and gold, just like the way it did when he was eleven, and with Hagrid, so long ago.

His joy faded as suddenly as the sparks.

He was in a _tomb_. Like Dumbledore's. Why? He was certainly not dead - perhaps this was some foul trick of Voldemort's?

Either way, Harry could both feel and hear his breath becoming ragged, and he could feel his chest tighten rapidly, in that all too familiar sensation of drowning - but not in water this time, but in air.

Harry fumbled with his wand. His arms felt sluggish, his whole body felt as if it had not been used in several years, but that was probably just the after effects of the battle - the battle that was still waging outside of this tomb that Harry had somehow ended up in.

He had chosen to go back. He _wanted_ to go back. He had to defeat Voldemort, _he had to_. Harry could not, _would_ not allow any more suffering to continue. He was doing it not for himself, but for those who had died for the noble cause of defeating Voldemort. For the last near three decades, Voldemort had lurked around every corner, whether he be in power or not, biding his time, waiting. Harry would not allow him to continue killing.

The only reason he had returned from the warm, white solace that had been so pleasant, so _nice_, was to avenge the dead. To save the living from the very same fate.

For his parents.

For Sirius.

For Lupin.

For Tonks.

For Colin.

For Dobby.

For Fred.

For Ron.

For Hermione.

For _Ginny_.

And with that, Harry somehow found the strength, in the depths of his exhausted body, to raise his wand as much as he was able, to aim it at the very solid stone above him, forebodingly lingering, _menacing_ almost, and shout, at the very top of his lungs, to force all of his remaining power into that spell.

'REDUCTO!'

And the stone erupted above Harry's now unconscious form.

* * *

***Bangs head repeatedly against keyboard* why another story, why?**

**- Spellmugwump97**


	2. Remembrance

**CHAPTER 1**

_Remembrance_

* * *

Ron stumbled towards the two foreboding tombs that stood by the lake.

The marble tomb held that of an elderly man, and although the circumstances of that certain old man were not the pleasant, easy death that the bearded man would have wanted, he was still an old man. He had lived his life, trials and tribulations in it included.

The other, however, contained a very different story tag, coupled along with the body that resided inside of it's white, with bright green flecked stone walls.

Ron leaned his head against his best friend's tomb with a growing sense of unease and sorrow.

Why Harry? _Why_?

Voldemort was dead, gone, _forever_. He was found in the forest clearing, abandoned by his followers and his servants, left to become gradually buried in the cool, leafy floor of the dirty clearing, left unsullied and unchallenged.

But, so was Harry.

They had sobbed, and cried. Mourned for so many months, for not only the people that they had lost in the Battle, and before hand, and the people that were injured irrevocably, and for those that had simply gone without a trace.

But Ron had never cried harder for any of the other deaths, than he did for Harry. Only his own brother's death had come equal to it. But then again, Harry was like a brother to him anyway.

Harry had spent his entire life, since before he was even born, being bullied, harassed, attacked, and hated. Did he not deserve to have even the slightest chance, a slightest slither of happiness, to come out of so many years of battling the evil that was Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle? Ron knew he did. And that was what made Harry's death all the more horrific.

Two years, to the day, that the war had ended.

Two years, to the day, that Harry had been murdered.

The two years had been arduous, long, horrible, depressing, and bleak. Ginny had barely spoken a word in the first year. Neither had Ron or Hermione.

Ron and Hermione had sought out each other for comfort, both having the grief of losing a best, and greatest friend weighing down upon them.

Ginny had nobody that had shared the same sort of relationship that she had had with Harry, and so it was that she had hardly progressed from her sallow and shell-like state that she had been in, static, from the week after the war.

Never moving on. Never moving forwards.

The first pricks of tears filled Ron's eyes, and burned the corners of them, but Ron made no move to wipe them away, as he might have done when Harry was alive.

Haunted, but alive.

'All right, mate.' Ron said in greeting, his voice harsh, his face desolate and grieving.

'I haven't come for a long time. I've been … busy.' Ron almost laughed sarcastically at that, but he ploughed on forwards anyway.

'Me and Hermione … we're getting … we're getting married next year.' He paused, and the soft breeze lifted up the hair lying haphazardly on his brow. 'I … I haven't got a Best Man. That was your job. George - he offered, but I think he knew that I was leaving it for you. Just like he'll probably do for Fred.'

Ron choked back a sob.

'Mum's gone mental with all of the preparations for it. We've only just gotten engaged, but Mum's never been one to sit around and wait, especially for a wedding. Hermione's family is coming too, so she almost had a heart attack when she saw that I'd put floating candles on the "Maybe" list.' Ron laughed a little, but his laugh was not full and hearty, but watery and weak. He finally relented, and smothered his eyes with the palms of his hands. His tearful joy soon faded.

'You would be good at this. You always thought about stuff like that. Maybe you had too much to think about all the time anyway, that it just came naturally to you.'

Ron paused for a few moments, looking off into the distance, eyes wandering over the cool depths of the shimmering lake, dappling in the dropping ever so slowly sun.

'It's not fair.' Ron said, pressing his palm up against the cool stone of his dead best friend's tomb, sniffing. 'You were supposed to live - get back with Ginny. I was supposed to pretend to be all angry at you for a few days, even though I've known ever since we were fifteen that you two would be perfect for each other.' Ron paused. 'Don't tell Hermione I said that.'

More time passed, and the only noise was the lapping of waves, and the continual sniffling of Ron.

'Memorial service today.'

Ron's head whacked against the cool marble, but he hardly cared.

'Third one. Bill and Fleur couldn't make it though - Fleur went into labour at about three this morning. Maybe there is some good coming out of this day, after all.'

Ron sniffed loudly, but he did not think anything of it. There was nobody around other than him.

'Baby's fine. Looks just like Fleur, actually. Spitting image. I don't what they're going to call it. It's a girl; Bill mentioned something like Dem - Doma - _Dee_ - oh, I dunno, I've never been good with all of the French names. To be honest, I try to get out of the room sharpish once they all start going on about babies.' Ron chuckled weakly.

'Teddy -' Ron faltered, and his voice shook and broke slightly. 'Teddy's doing all right. He doesn't realise though, not yet. I think he's under the impression that his parents are away on a very long holiday. He's only _two_. Two years old … Harry, he hasn't even met you. How is that fair? Well, I suppose you would know, you were in the same …

'Teddy's loved, if that's what you're worried about. Mum won't stop fussing. Andromeda is stressed - but what's to be expected at her age, looking after a toddler? She's made out of stone, that woman, she just never stops … We're not like the Dursley's, Harry. I promise you that. They - they had the cheek to turn up at the first memorial. Those -' Ron made a violent gesture with his hands, before letting them settle in his lap.

'Dudley seems all right now, actually. Your Uncle never stopped muttering, but even he looked pretty upset. Your aunt - Harry she was practically sobbing! Completely stoic, of course, but she was definitely crying a bit, and I think Dudley was too, but I was … well, you know.'

The morning sun was ever so slowly climbing up the hills and mountains surrounding the castle grounds, and Ron watched it slowly, painstakingly, edge it's way up towards the very centre of the sky, which he knew was the time that he had to be in the Great Hall, for the beginning of the third memorial, before the procession down to the grounds, very near the spot in which he now sat.

He was not aware of how long he had sat there, staring at the landscape that was like some sort of beautiful oasis in the solemn and devastating circumstances that had befallen the survivors of exactly two years ago.

But, when he did rise from his hunched seat, leaning against his best friends tomb, and rubbing the cool marble with both hands as he muttered heartfelt and sorrowful goodbyes to his dead best friend, Ron felt as if something was going to happen that was going to give him hope.

Him, along with the Ministry that was still in absolute turmoil and chaos, and the school, in which it's grounds he stood, and the rest of the Wizarding World, were going to experience something big, and very soon.

And Ron trusted his gut instinct, because that was what had led him to the forest, his instinct that had thought that Harry had given himself up, and his instinct to know where to find the desolate bodies that were strewn on the clearing floor; one a saviour, one a villain.

Ron felt hope, for the first time in two years.

* * *

**- *sob*  
Not got much to say, other than thank you so much for the amazing response! I'm going to be replying to reviews by Pm now, I think it'll be much easier and will stop clogging up this story!  
Thank you for the amazing support!  
**

**- Spellmugwump97**


	3. Stumbling

**CHAPTER 2**

_Stumbling_

* * *

The occasion was increasingly solemn, the cold grey gloom of the weather in the Scottish highlands now eclipsing the previous bright sunshine, causing the congregation now gathered in the large and majestic grounds of Hogwarts castle to don countless cloaks and hats.

All, of course, were of the darkest colours, if not black, and even the outrageous clothing styles of the Lovegood's were not present.

Ron Weasley made his way through the hoards of people to the front of the mass gathering, all seated solemnly on the identically black chairs that covered the sweeping lawns.

Even the pupils of the school had turned up; it was an optional event, of course, but nobody, not even the older Slytherin's, had dared not to attend. Many would inevitably take it as a personal insult if they did not appear at the Memorial taking place at their school.

Ron tried not to look at the people gathered. They would whisper, and point, just as they had done so at the other two service's in the two years before. They would mutter things under their breath, clearly not thinking that he could, and would, hear and feel their biting words.

Ron was almost grateful to the small children attending, that exclaimed and shouted their thoughts of him out loud, despite the fact that their parents worriedly hushed them, to many disapproving glare of other members of the congregation around them.

They did not bother to hide behind a fake façade.

For what seemed like the hundredth time in his life, Ron wished he had not been so jealous of Harry and his world-wide fame, and actually believed that being rich and famous, and a celebrity, was not all that it was cracked up to be. Ron wished that he had just enjoyed his time with Harry, while he had it.

Ron did not dwell on those thoughts, however. They hurt too much.

'_That's Harry Potter's best friend_!'

'_Ron Weasley_!'

'_Must be a tough day for him, poor lad_.'

'_He helped kill You-Know-Who_!'

The echo's of their voices stalked him until he finally, _finally_ arrived and sat down upon his elected seat, at the very front row, inbetween a sobbing Hermione and a painfully blank looking Ginny.

Kingsley, the step-in Minister of Magic, stood up from his seat on the raised platform, and began to speak, holding his wand to his neck, his cool and calming, deeply resounding and rumbling voice reverberating throughout the silent hall.

'Today, we remember the braves. We remember those brave and courageous people that sacrificed their own lives for the good of others, and to protect them from the evil of which they themselves fell to, whether they be Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor or Slytherin.

'At the dawn of this new millennia, we must never forget the names of the fallen, nor of the causes for their deaths; the dark forces of which they laid down their lives to protect, as well as to protect many others.

'If we are to forget the root of the problem, the terrifying and horrific threat that has just up until two years ago terrorised the Wizarding World for more than a decade, then it will inevitably happen again, and so shall the path to our own destruction.

'Now, we shall recite the names of the fallen, and hold a two minute silence in respect of their sacrifice.'

There was a pause, and then the names began to be reeled off.

_Began_, being the operative word.

'Bathilda Bagshot.' Kingsley said.

'_Bathilda Bagshot_.' Murmured the gathering.

'Charity Burbage.' Kingsley said.

'_Charity Burbage_.' The congregation repeated.

'Regulus Black.'

'_Regulus Black_.'

'Colin Creevey.'

'_Colin Creevey_.'

'Dirk Cresswell.'

'_Dirk Cresswell_.'

'Dobby the House -'

Boom.

Screams erupted as Ron looked up hurriedly, blinking back the tears as he jolted into action, trying to find the source of the noise, or, what was much more likely, the explosive commotion.

Where Ron saw the commotion happening made him feel sick to the bone.

_Harry's tomb_.

Who would _do_ that? On the memorial day, of all days. What sicko would do such a horrific, terrible thing, such as to blow up a tomb of the very person that had ensured, in and due to his own sacrifice, that any of the people gathered were even still standing today?

A corrosive anger washed through Ron, as amongst the screams and shouts, and the sobbing and the horror of it all as people started realising what had happened, were blanked from his mind in some sort of sick act of calm, as he walked over to the tomb.

Not faltering, Ron strode to the edge of the marble, with a searing hatred coursing through his veins towards whoever had done this, vowing, almost subconsciously, to kill, to _slaughter_ whoever had disregarded his best friend's final resting place, his safe haven, even though it was in death that he had eventually found it.

Ignoring the shouts of his family, of Auror's present, of friends and old school teachers, Ron finally brought himself to draw his eyes upon the cold face of his dead best friend.

It was not how it was supposed to look.

Harry's rigid face was not the slumbering, peaceful one that they had laid him to rest with what seemed like so many years ago. It was screwed up, into a painful, exhausted expression, looking for all the world as if he had just emerged from the Battle of which the rest of the Wizarding World was only just beginning to recover from.

Harry's face was pale, but not the _deathly_ pale pallor that Ron remembered from two years ago. It looked as if Harry was sick, and had just fallen into an uncomfortable sleep.

Casting his eyes down the corpse, he saw that the pale greyish-blue robes that they had dressed Harry to be buried in were rumpled. His arms were no longer folded benignly over his chest, with his wand tucked comfortably between them, but one was lying by his side with his wand clutched in it loosely, and the other was sprawled awkwardly across his chest and stomach.

Ron considered the haphazard state of his best friend's body, and then he jumped to a horrible thought.

Inferi?

_No_. No, they could not do that. They could not turn the body of Ron's best friend into some sort of zombie.

Ron would not allow it.

He felt the sudden, unknown urge to clasp the hand of his fallen friend, and the instinct was so much like the one that he had had during the battle, when he had led a select few of the Order and the DA to where Harry and Voldemort both lay, dead, upon the leafy green forest flooring, that gave the illusion of peace and serenity, that it threw Ron a bit, but yet, just as he had done with the previous instinct so much like this one that he had received, he continued on with it anyway, ignoring the sickening feeling in his gut, his turning and churning stomach -

And he clasped the hand of his best friend.

* * *

**- This is all a little depressing, huh? I hope you liked, anyway. You're very lucky with all of these snappy chappy's, this certainly doesn't usually happen! I'll try to keep it up though. Summer holidays in a week, lots of spare time:D  
I will reply to all reviews via PM:)**

**- Spellmugwump97**


	4. Pounding

**BEARINGS**

_Pounding_

* * *

The world seemed to stop, or at least go into slow motion, as Ron held the wrist of his best friend tightly.

It was not false, it could not possibly be.

The blood was pounding through Harry's veins just as surely as the blood was pumping throughout Ron's body, filling every crevice, keeping him alive.

_Harry was alive_.

There was no two ways about it.

All of the questions that Ron had wondered, that all of them had wondered in the depths of their grieving and despair, would finally, _finally_ be answered.

_Why was Voldemort suddenly dead?_

_What was in Snape's memories?_

_Why did Harry sacrifice himself?_

_How was Voldemort dead?_

Ron felt like crying and erupting into celebratory joy at the same time.

'Ron … Ron …'

There was a gentle pulling at the back of Ron's robes, and even without the sideways glance that he took, Ron knew that it was Hermione.

'Ron, you've got to come away … let the Aurors deal with it …' Hermione was saying, as, true to her words, the Auror's, faces stony and wands drawn, began advancing towards them slowly but surely, led by a worried and positively furious looking Kingsley.

Looking behind him, still clutching Harry's wrist that was pulsating steadily and strongly with a renewed fervour, Ron had never experienced a feeling so joyful as that slow and steady pounding, Ron saw that behind the tearful Hermione, was the rest of his family and friends; Seamus, Neville, Dean, Luna … all of them crying, or looking for all the world as if they had been petrified.

Hardly even noticing his own tears streaking down his cheeks and streaming from his eyes, - happy tears, the most joyful ever, though they would most certainly not be portrayed as such by the rest of the congregation, - Ron looked Hermione straight in the eyes. His fiancé, he remembered with a jolt, and then he remembered that Harry would be here, Harry would be able to be there with them, and everything would be right, and good and whole again -

'Hermione …' Ron said quietly, looking into her brown eyes that were glossy and sparkling from tears, 'there's a pulse.' He continued, with the utmost conviction.

She looked at him, with those deep, soulful brown eyes, confused, before gasping and speaking.

'Ron, no - you must have made a mistake -' She paused, and gulped, before continuing. 'Harry - Harry's _dead_ Ron.'

Hermione looked at him fiercely, stubbornly, her expression that of many arguments and fights that they had had before, though this time Ron did not find it endearing. Anger clouded her face, as Ron grabbed hold of her wrist, not tightly, but enough to hold her attention.

'Why are you doing this?' She hissed, trying to yank her hand out of Ron's grip, to no avail.

'Ron - let _go_ -'

'Hermione, please, just come and look.' Ron pleaded, and Hermione looked at him, horrified, shaking her head avidly so that her hair swung around her face wildly.

'No - no Ron, I _can't_ -' She squeaked as Ron pulled her closer into an embrace, and then she began crying harder than ever.

'I've already seen once, I don't - I can't -' Hermione murmured, and Ron understood. Hermione still thought that Harry was dead, and that Harry was a mere corpse, not _Harry_ any longer. She had seen his body once, and refused to see it yet again, and as Ro stroked her hair tenderly, he spoke softly to her.

'You don't even have to look.' Ron said, rubbing the back of her hand quickly and watching the Auror's come ever closer. He kissed Hermione chastely on the cheek, and then spoke again. 'Just feel his wrist, you'll see.'

Hermione looked into his eyes undecidedly, before a shadow of trust passed through them. She closed her eyes, and Ron guided her the two steps needed to reach the edge of the destroyed tomb.

When her hand made contact with the cold, but not deathly so, hand of her previously thought dead best friend, she jumped out of her skin, and Ron, with his arms placed comfortably around her shoulders, could feel her body indecisively squirming, as if she wished to run far, far away, but to stay at the same time.

Her face, eyes still remaining tight shut, creased into a concentrated look, as she pressed her finger's to Harry's wrist tightly. Ron could only assume that she was searching for a pulse. He hoped she would be able to find it, Ron doubted she would try to decipher it again after this try.

It was almost possible to see the cogs in her head turning rapidly, exhausting themselves as they worked rapidly, worked overtime, and with Hermione, that was certainly saying something -

Hermione's eyes opened with a jolt, and her mouth formed a small round "O" shape, and she looked at Ron with elated eyes.

Ron knew, in that instance, that she believed him.

'Oh my God …' Hermione muttered, looking at Ron in a happy amazement as Ron grinned joyously.

She looked down at the, now she knew, sleeping Harry, with eyes now bright from happy tears, not horrified or desolate ones, and Hermione smiled a tender smile. The moment was peaceful, and for that slight moment, not even the thought that Harry could be an impostor passed through Ron's mind, for how could he be, when he was so obviously _Harry_?

It was peaceful, until Kingsley's booming voice echoed across the grounds, angry and dangerous, disturbing the quiet serenity.

'_What_ is going on?' He shouted to the crowd of close friends and family of Ron, and Ron suddenly realised with a jolt that the rest of the people had seemingly vanished.

Silence overtook them all as they all avoided with a passion the figure of the positively furious Kingsley.

Perhaps this was a bad time to announce the Harry situation, then.

Everybody else, Ron noticed, was avoiding looking anywhere near the utterly destroyed tomb, or the body of which it was supposed to defend and keep safe so well.

'I want to know who did this.' Kingsley thundered, threat pronouncing every word, every syllable. 'And when I find out who did this, they will _not_ be getting off lightly.'

Kingsley cast a furious eye very those gathered, looking for all the world more vicious and revengeful than a lion. That was when it hit home to Ron, two things.

One, what a good Auror and fighter Kingsley was.

Two, just how much Harry meant to everybody in the Wizarding World.

'Do I make myself clear?' Kingsley hissed. His next word made even the hardened Auror's that had thankfully stopped closing in on Ron, Hermione and Harry, jump dramatically. 'DO I MAKE MYSELF -'

There was a cough, and a gasp of breath, and Ron, who had been concentrating wholly on Kingsley, looked down, both elated and shocked, to see that it was his best friend who had been making the noises. Everybody else looked towards the offending sound maker, but as they could not see fully into the tomb, deep as it was, they could not see that Harry was the culprit.

Ron supposed that it might be considered rather rude and disrespectful to gawk at a dead body inside of it's desecrated tomb, but given the fact that, in this certain case, the timb did not even contain a dead body, and instead a very live one, he thought that he might be considered excused from his terrible manners.

He and Hermione, Ron suddenly realised had edged away ever so slightly from the tomb, so that they were no longer leaning over it, but could still easily see into it's depths. They had moved, probably to calm Kingsley, or in an effort to, anyway. Perhaps to inform him about Harry's current breathing status.

Something told Ron that this was _not_ the best time to tell Kingsley about _that _certain minor detail.

Ron took the minute step back towards looming over the tomb faster than he ever thought possible, and feeling Hermione next to him, he did just that. Both of them were ignoring the shouts of warning echoing from the Auror's and Kingsley.

Ron only cared about Harry and Hermione. They were in their own little isolated bubble.

Harry's eyes were flickering open and closed, his mouth open as he drew in great, shuddering breaths, as if he had not breathed in clean air in years. Then again, Ron briefly thought to himself degradingly, there was most certainly no "what if" included in that statement.

Harry's hands gripped the wand that was tightly held in his clutches as he coughed once more. It was then that he fully opened his eyes to the world.

Eyes clouded over in what Ron was sure was the utmost confusion, Harry looked questioningly at Ron and Hermione, who were both, Ron was sure, hovering over Harry's head like some kind of breed of a surreal fly.

Both of them were outright sobbing, in both relief and joy as they saw him, saw him actually breathing and _living_, real and solid proof that he was alive.

Harry evidently opened his mouth to say something, and Ron leaned forwards in an eager suspense, before Harry fell back with an audible thump onto the cool marble, clutching his chest and crying out in pain.

'Harry! Harry, what is it?' Hermione shrieked, looking terrified.

'My … my chest …' Harry muttered croakily, voice having not been used for years.

Ron could only look on in mild horror, as Harry's hands scrabbled at his chest, rubbing it, as if that would get rid of the pain, or at the very least, lessen it somewhat.

He cried out, and he was almost writhing in pain, and Ron and Hermione were both in a wild panic, and there was shouting from around them, asking what the hell was going on, and Harry's hands were still scraping across the cloudy, light blue material that made up his burial robes.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain simply stopped.

An echoing moment of still passed over the place, with only the panting of an exhausted Harry puncturing the silence, before -

'Oh, Harry!' Hermione squealed.

She launched herself at Harry, enveloping him into a log and strenuous hug, that, to Ron, was looking so tight and air resistant that made him distinctly reminded of his own mother's embraces.

'All right, Hermione,' Ron said, when he was sure that Harry was turning purple, even without being able to see his face through Hermione's bushy locks, 'lets not kill him when we've only just got him back.'

Hermione turned to glare at him half heartedly, whilst at the same time gently relinquishing her grip on the now breathless Harry, who had evidently not heard Ron's comment.

There was a brief moment, when everything was right with the world.

And then it went.

'Voldemort!' Harry exclaimed, and Ron was immediately lost.

'What -' Ron began to say, before Harry continued, in a panicked tone, his eyes alight with both fear and bravery, the determination in his gaze in abundance. It was a look that Ron had forgotten, that he had missed whilst Harry was … _absent_.

Ron glanced at Hermione questioningly, and saw the dawning look of comprehension on her face. It was an expression, he would grumble later, that he had gotten used to seeing far too often.

'Voldemort! Where is he? He wouldn't of just left, he wouldn't have - why aren't I back in the forest? That's where I was, before - you look different, why do you look different? How is this happening -'

The confused and disconnected thoughts and questions that came tumbling out of Harry Potter's mouth attracted the attention of more people than just Ron and Hermione.

* * *

**- An update? Here? NO! I have returned! Honestly though, in between going to Rome, an Olympics Final and Hyde Park BT London Live, I really haven't have much time at all. Understatement. (All were amazing, by the way).  
I'm sorry for the mess-up with replying to reviews. I'd like your opinion, however. Would you prefer me to PM you all, or put it at the end of the chapter as per usual? I just started replying to review's via the little icon by the actual reviews, and that's when I realsied I'd already done that..*sigh*. Sorry if you've received two replies, accidental!  
Sorry if I haven't replied to any of your reviews, I honestly haven't meant any spite behind it:)  
I hope you like and enjoy!**

**- Spellmugwump97**


	5. To Face The Inevitable

**CHAPTER 4**

_To Face The Inevitable_

'WHAT'S GOING ON?'

The thundering voice of Kingsley ripped through Harry's panicked voice as he shouted for calm and explanation.

Harry stopped speaking abruptly, suddenly realising just how loud he had been ranting. That was Kingsley, was it not? What was he doing here?

Confusion swirled around in his mind like a thick fog that would never dissipate, and he could not see through it, could not even begin to comprehend the reason _why_ he was surrounded by all of these people that meant so much to him, _why_ they were all here today, and _why_ he had woken up in a _tomb_?

In sudden, jolted movements that remained unhindered due to the fact that both Ron and Hermione were staring at Kingsley with shock on their faces, hands slipping off of Harry's arms and the side of the tomb with a sluggish movement that made them look like they were moving through water.

To Harry, anyway.

Groaning as his aching and weary arms clutched at the sides of the tomb to try and hoist himself up and out of it, Harry had almost stuck his head up and out of the marble that seemed to be enclosing him and stealing his oxygen with every passing minute that he stayed lying in it, before Hermione glanced at him and shrieked loudly enough to break Ron out of his reverie and shout out in alarm as he saw Harry.

'Harry, no!' Hermione shouted, in a high pitched wail. 'You _can't_, they don't know yet!'

'You can't just appear, alive! Everyone thinks you're dead!' Ron nearly shouted, hand pulling at his hair in the stress of the situation.

'I don't understand.' Harry murmured, leaning against the side of the tomb and folding his legs up and resting his head on them, hands curling around all of himself, curling into his shell.

His statement was true - he had no clue what was happening at that moment. He was meant to be battling Voldemort, but he wasn't. His friends were supposed to be battle worn, but they weren't. He was meant to be dead, but he wasn't.

'Oh, _Harry_.' Harry heard Hermione say brokenly, and he could almost see her hands shoot to her mouth in emotion.

'Harry …' Ron said, his voice sounding, surprisingly, just as broken as Hermione's, 'we'll figure it out. You just - you can't spring it on them like that, Merlin knows we found it enough of a shock.'

'What are we supposed to do then?' Harry said loudly, his voice stronger and more solid, head springing up from his hands. 'I can't just sit here, and wait for them to go!'

'Ron! Hermione!' Kingsley's voice barked, much closer this time. Too close, this time. What's going on? Dean says he saw -'

'Nothing!' Ron said in a strangely shrill voice, back straightening as he turned around quickly on his heel.

All Harry could think was thank _Merlin_ Kingsley didn't sound as angry as he had done before.

'Nothing's going on! Er - we just have to all keep calm and -'

'Keep calm?' Harry heard Kingsley hiss, and he knew for all the world that Kingsley must be looking absolutely livid.

'Harry Potter's tomb has just been blown up, _from the inside_. Do you really expect me to _keep calm_?'

'We can explain, Kingsley! Just please don't do anything before you know the whole story_. Please_.' Hermione pleaded.

'Fine,' Kingsley said quietly after a long and pregnant pause. 'but don't expect me to believe the crackpot story that you come up with - don't give me those looks, you've perfected it so much that it's almost an art.'

'Well … you see,' Hermione began, stuttering when she suddenly came to the realisation that she was, for once in her life, without a sufficient plan to get her through the awkward and unbelievable situation and conversation that she was now in. 'Harry - he's … well, we don't quite know how, we're having a hard time believing it ourselves, Kingsley, but it is him, there's no way anybody could get into the tomb! Bill got the best Goblin's to do the job of enchanting the tomb and making it impenetrable - of course you knew that … I mean, there's no way that it's _not_ him -'

Through the ranting of a flustered Hermione that Harry barely heard, the dark tendrils of aching soreness began bleeding through into Harry's consciousness as his head began to throb to the tune of a painful symphony. His hands clutched at the hair that was matted to his scalp and skull, pulling at it, as if that would help the pain go away. Groaning quietly, he tried desperately to tune out the fervoured whispers of Kingsley, as it was clear that he was attempting to understand what was going on - Harry was nowhere near that point.

The last thing he could remember, scanning his brain through the increasingly pain-numbing headache, was the green light emitted from the Elder Wand in Voldemort's hand in the forest, and the conversation with Dumbledore that made Harry understand everything.

_Everything_.

Harry felt like retching.

He had been a Horcrux. He was one of the very reasons that Voldemort had been alive to terrorise, to kill, to maim, to destroy. He had tethered to life the very man who had brought about the killing of his parents, Godfather, Remus, Tonks, Fred. The attempted killings of Ron and Hermione, Neville, Luna, George, he had near enough brought about.

As far as he knew. Ron and Hermione had looked tired. Weak. As if they had been through much in the period of Harry's absence. Could more have been murdered? Was Voldemort still around, despite Hermione's words of hurried reassurance?

Or could he be hiding, waiting, biding his time as he had before, with himself and Nagini, his last remaining Horcrux, safely protected in the comfortable confines of a place such as Malfoy Manor?

Head thumping almost unbearably, Harry opened his eyes to see a shocked and gobsmaked Kingsley peering down at him.

'Harry?' He said carefully, and Harry could only stare back up at him. 'Is it really you?'

There was a tense pause, before Harry gathered the strength within himself to nod, despite the raging headache that was pulverising his head, and making coherent thoughts muddle and scramble.

'Oh my -' Kingsley said, eyes widened as the situation sunk in. He prodded Harry painfully on the arm, as if checking that this were really happening.

There was a moment of silence, in which Harry briefly wondered what Ron and Hermione had said that had Kingsley so convinced.

As swiftly as he had come, Kingsley's head whipped up with a dizzying amount of speed, and then, in alarmingly quick succession, he began barking orders to people that Harry assumed must be Auror's.

'Parker - get the civilians cleared out of here, we've got a serious situation on our hands - no, no, Dawlish, keep the Weasley's here - Hampson, find McGonagall, we need her here, tell her it's urgent -'

Suddenly, what seemed like pandemonium to Harry erupted around him, with shouts to and from Kingsley and other Auror's, mixed in with other voices that he thought he recognised calling out what sounded like questions.

'I need to get out of here.' Harry said miserably, as his head throbbed painfully once more, and the dark marble walls of his tomb, - that alone made him want to throw up, - closed in on him with an even more pronounced force.

'It'll be okay, Harry,' A voice said, and Harry didn't care about whether it was Ron, Hermione, or Kingsley.

'No …' Harry uttered, 'I feel sick … like I'm about to throw up …'

'It'll be fine,' the voice, Hermione, as he identified, said whilst rubbing small circles over his back. 'Just breathe, Harry. In and out, in and -'

Harry tried to breathe, he really did, but the overwhelming panic of the situation seemed to have disrupted his bowel movements severely, and without a single warning to the people around him, he threw his torso over the side of the tomb, retching and coughing.

When he had finally managed to clear his throat, Harry finally glanced up at the now, oddly, silent grounds around him. Only the soft sounds of the lake disrupted the stagnant air; even the Whomping Willow seemed to have frozen in suspense.

He was sure he looked a mess, but who could blame him. Besides, he really could not care less at the moment.

So many faces of those he loved and recognised stared back at him; so many that it was staggering, to think that all of these people were the people that, - he gulped, - Harry had sacrificed himself for. _Died_ for.

The Weasley's, even Charlie and Percy, Harry blearily thought, were all clustered together in a fiery inferno of hair, in which there was only one shimmering blonde head. Harry thought he saw one or two brown haired heads hidden amongst them too, and even a blue haired one, though that, of course, was impossible. All wore identical expressions of pure and simple shock, all eyes locked on him - it made Harry rather uncomfortable, though from what Ron and Hermione had told him, it was more than warranted.

Near them stood Dean, Neville, Luna and Seamus, all with a mixture of shocked, or, in Luna's case, a simply moderately surprised look about them.

Hagrid stood, alone, in all of his bulk, sniffling into his circus tent of a handkerchief. Nevertheless, like the astonished McGonagall who moved to his side and gripped his arm, he could only stare unyieldingly at Harry who was frozen into his current position, despite the cutting edge of the marble digging painfully into his chest.

There were the remaining Order members, too; Hestia and Dedalus looking as pale as corpses, others that Harry recognised from when he was being rescued from Privet Drive when he was just entering his fifth year - there was even a stunned and slightly sheepish looking Mundungus, hair as lank as ever, cigarette hanging on for dear life to the lips of his gaping mouth lurking just behind them.

Harry did not know what to do, but apparently, somebody else did.

'_Confringo_!' There was a whizzing noise, and then some of the debris of the already blown up marble shot up into the air and exploded once again.

'_Reducto_! _Oppugno_!'

'Ginny! Ginny stop! STOP!'

Ron was shouting at her, but Harry could not bear to look at her. He remained where he was; draped over the side of his destroyed death bed, a small trickle of blood from a sharp piece of shrapnel working it's way down his temple.

'He's - who is he? He's an impostor - we can't - _I_ can't -' Ginny's fury leaked through into her speech, fury, but also a hint of sorrow evident.

'Just wait, Ginny! _Merlin_ -'

'REDUCTO!'

'_Ginny_!'

Harry could, only then, using his last ounce of courage, tear his eyes away from a particular yew tree and look at Ginny - Only to find her staring right back at him.

Hair whipped around her face like a furious halo, earrings tangled in it carelessly, black robes haphazard and tear streaks running down a blotchy face; Harry had never seen a sight more beautiful or wonderful in his life.

He just wanted to hold her, but now was not the time.

Now was the time to swing his body over the cold stone, ground his feet into the steady and solid earth, grip his wand tightly, stare down the Aurors and face what was coming to him, all without the headache, which was strangely forgotten.

* * *

**- I bow to your patience. Really, I do. You're absolutely amazing.**  
**Mock exams got in the way severely; as well as a sprained wrist straight away after them!**  
**So much love to all of you, and I hope you enjoy,**

**-Spellmugwump97:)**


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